


You Were Only Waiting For This Moment

by Savageandwise



Series: Drabbles: We Will Never Be Here Again [16]
Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: After John's death, Angst, Grief, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 12:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18249953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: Paul grieving.





	You Were Only Waiting For This Moment

**Author's Note:**

> The word was bird...again... re-bird...
> 
> This concludes my vacation drabbles! Let me know what you think.

Paul's awake before sunrise. His feet are cold, he forgot his slippers but he doesn't want to wake Linda searching for them. He curls his toes into the carpet instead and pours whiskey into a chipped mug. It's five o’clock somewhere in the world. Maybe it's five o'clock where John is too.

There's a small black bird at the kitchen window, staring at him with beady eyes. It tilts its tiny head to the side, titters inquisitively. If Paul didn't know better, he'd say it was trying to talk to him.

“What are you doing, then?” Paul murmurs absently. “Come to visit me?”

“Who are you talking to?” 

He turns, startled and sees Heather standing in the doorway. Her feet are bare under her long cotton nightdress. No one in this family ever wears shoes.

“No one, sweetheart. Just that little fella there.” He points at the window.

Heather watches it for a while. “Blackbird. Thanking you for the song.”

She sits down and picks up his mug, takes one sip and then another. Paul opens his mouth to protest then shuts it, she's old enough to drink if she wants.

“Your mother send you to check on me?”

She rocks her chair back to observe him. “No. I thought maybe you were sad.”

“Sad? No, darling. Why would I be?” 

Heather shrugs. “You know why.”

It's been a year. A year of mourning is long enough, isn't it?

“He'd want me to get on with life,” Paul says, his voice coloured with doubt. He drains the mug, reaches for the bottle again.

She takes it from him and screws on the cap. “So get on with it,” she says gently.

The bird on the windowsill ruffles its black wings, launches up into a sky painted orange by the dawn.


End file.
